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T came unto the morning of their departure for Wadi Okar. Since the first pale hint of dawn Said, the scrawny Dongalawi, had been vigilantly watching at the gate. This gate was no more than a square breach in a mud wall, behind which stood the Grand Hotel of Khartum. In front ran a white road—then the sluggish Nile; four equidistant parallels—the river, the road, the wall, the hotel piazza.

Said squatted upon his haunches, talking with a stringy-necked porter who reclined upon an angereb. At times Said rose and walked apart, whispering with those who came to seek his counsel. There was Achmet the camel-driver, Hamuda Hamad who trafficked in donkeys, and Mohammed ben Idris, cloth-seller in the bazaar. Singly these merchants did talk with Said, yet—as if of one mind—each glanced hawkishly over the wall into that vacant garden, and along the deserted piazza. Said counseled patience, and to each his tongue dripped pearls of wisdom. "The Black Effendi has not yet roused from his sleep; he will 189